


Unfolding

by kayabiter



Series: Oak & Ash [1]
Category: Cursed (TV 2020), Cursed - Thomas Wheeler
Genre: Blood and Injury, Falling In Love, Hanahaki Disease, Light Angst, M/M, Magic, Swordfighting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:55:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26190748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayabiter/pseuds/kayabiter
Summary: The white flower sits in the palm of his hand, so innocent and yet so out of place. It is entirely ordinary: small, fragile, five tiny petals. The only problem is that it is the fourth flower Lancelot coughed up today.
Relationships: Gawain | The Green Knight/The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Series: Oak & Ash [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1902007
Comments: 11
Kudos: 117





	Unfolding

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to SuperLizard for beta-reading! <3

_ Petal by petal your worries will settle, what will be and what won't? _

_ Pressing your hands on the stinging nettle, hoping for cure, but it don't. _

_ I think I see how it got you to where you are now, a muddled up afterglow, _

_ Where you silently wander while hoping it won't crawl back on you as you go _

_ They say that _

_ One by one you gotta sow in ashes. _

[Patty Gurdy - One by One]

The trills of birds are ringing clearly in the early morning fog above the lake. As a wren flits past, Lancelot's eyes follow it from where the man is crouching on the stone shore, the water lapping serenely, almost reaching the toes of his boots. Once the bird disappears in the lazily swirling fog, his gaze returns to the thing he has been puzzling over. The white flower sits in the palm of his hand, so innocent and yet so out of place. It is entirely ordinary: small, fragile, five tiny petals. The only problem is that it is the fourth flower he coughed up today. He does not know where they come from, and it drives him mad. He is sure of so little these days, his mind in incessant turmoil, but at least he could rely on his body just as he would on the honed steel of his swords. One might even argue they were one and the same; and yet now there seems to be rust of sorts. It must be some curse, some quirk of his damned nature finally manifesting, just as Father…

“Are you ready?”

He starts, crumpling the flower in his hand and turning around.

“One time I do not try to sneak up on you is the one I succeed,” chuckles Gawain, but then his face turns worried. “Is everything well?” he asks carefully, quite aware that the question is entirely too optimistic for their situation. However, he does not find the gentler words to inquire whether his unlikely companion has finally reached the breaking point.

Driven by a surge in vague but ever-present guilt, Lancelot rises from the ground in a blur of dark fabric. Usually, it adds to his menacing image, but right now, if anything, the man resembles a spooked blackbird. Gawain cannot entirely hide his amusement at the sight of once impassive monk now so flustered.

“Yes, I just... I was distracted,” Lancelot replies hesitantly and winces slightly, pushing down the desire to close his eyes in frustration at how his composure seems to abandon him completely.

“I can see that,” Gawain arches his brow, but thankfully drops the topic. “Well, you'd better get your thoughts in order. We are to reach the camp today, and I need you to have both feet on the ground for that,” he eyes him meaningfully, a heavy implication of just how many Fey would exploit his any weakness and enjoy the downfall.

As the knight turns around to get back to their campfire, Lancelot cannot help an annoyed frown. How is he to get his spinning thoughts under control when the very reason for most of them is riding right beside him? The knight who, it seems, has come back from the dead, and just walked it off. When he first appeared near their halt, Lancelot nearly ran him through again with a sword, taking him for a wraith. Even Squirrel seemed apprehensive, and it took Gawain a tense couple of minutes to dissuade their fears. The resurrected knight even agreed to wait patiently while Lancelot drew a cross in the air and read a short prayer, peering expectantly to see whether the Fey will go up in flames. In hindsight, it was probably a futile exercise, and Lancelot’s cheeks flush at the memory of Gawain’s unamused expression.

What was nearly as bewildering was that the Green Knight still seemed hell-bent on making Lancelot join their side. And now these mysterious flowers. An uneasy idea comes to his mind - could they be some kind of sorcery as well? But he cannot remember encountering anything potentially enchanted since they left the Paladin camp. There is no smell of ozone, which trailed after the Wold-Blood Witch, either.

Always feeling as he is walking a tightrope, Lancelot is torn, and they have not even reached the Fey camp yet. But Gawain put his trust into him. Not to mention Percival. He suppresses a shiver at the thought of the disappointment in the boy's eyes should he attempt to get lost in the woods. They guarded each other’s sleep, what little of it they had, and broke bread with each other. While sitting around the fire, Paladins have often swapped stories depicting Fey as treacherous and malicious, yet Lancelot doubts it more and more. His gut feeling has saved his hide countless times before, and he is intent on following it now as well.

With that, he sighs and follows Gawain. It is time to get some clarity, he thinks grimly. And if there will be pain – well, he has never shied it from it before; he is not going to start now.

\---

It turns out that he has not felt that particular kind of pain before. Lancelot is mildly surprised, but mostly he is numb – like after a thorough beating, only now it's the words instead of sticks.

Objectively, he is supposed to feel ashamed; but if anything, he is disoriented. The Fey camp is full of life; it overwhelms him with the smell of magic and all the creatures – people, his people, he corrects himself – that he only ever felt sparingly before. He is a tracker, after all, used to following the trails in the depth of the forest, reading into the hidden signs and impressions, able to scent someone days after they passed. To be surrounded by what feels like a sea of feathers, and horns, and scales, is bizarre. It reminds him of the drawings of hell he saw in the old Church books, yet it is anything but. Even if most of the Fey here are one breath away from slaughtering him. The only thing stopping them is, well, Gawain.

The monk lets his head hit the ground of the tent in which he is – hiding, to be honest, – from the others. Its comforts, like a couple of decent bedrolls, however modest, are a welcome change from sleeping on the ground. There is even a tattered book in the corner, its pages well-worn. As he is trying to make out the letters on the cover, Lancelot’s thoughts drift to the man who must have pulled it out of the smouldering debris. The tent is shared with Gawain, but by no means was that supposed to be a gift Lancelot secretly considers it to be. On the contrary, the Fey cannot trust anyone else not to slit his throat – or be able to defend themselves shall he revert to the bloody ways of Paladins. He wonders vaguely why they didn't just put him with the fierce woman – Kaze, he thinks, her name is? She seems quite in control of herself, and more than capable of subduing him. Especially now that he does not have anything remotely resembling a weapon. Perhaps, though, it is a matter of simple disgust. He wonders uneasily what it means for Gawain and whether the knight has been genuinely ready to condemn himself to such a struggle.

As if hearing Lancelot's thoughts, the Fey throws the flap of the tent away and steps inside, causing the younger man to scramble upright. The tight corners of Gawain's eyes betray his tiredness, but his jaw is set stubbornly. With shoulders tensed, it looks as if he has just come out of a fight. The Ash-man shifts anxiously on the ground and swallows tightly, looking up at the knight in silent question. In response, Gawain looks down on him with an unreadable expression and grimaces.

“You are not to be executed if that's what you are wondering about,” he says, turning away and starting to unlace the fastenings of his armour with nimble fingers, each movement practised and precise. Lancelot feels as if he can finally breathe again, and something warm blossoms in his chest. The wave of gratitude is so strong he is almost dizzy with it, ready to kneel in front of Gawain. But there is something else as well growing steadily inside. He dares to think it is hope, or at least he believes that is how it is supposed to feel. As Gawain dips a clean rug into the bucket of water to wipe at his face, Lancelot is burning with the need to break the silence:

“That's more than I hoped for,” the monk ventures in an attempt to lighten the mood, but the joke falls flat as Gawain does not answer. Coughing quietly, he tries again:

“Have they said anything else?”

Gawain's hands still and a small, mirthless smile curves his lips, as he stares into the middle distance, still refusing to look at Lancelot.

“It would, perhaps, be easier to list what they did not say,” he sighs and throws the rag down with a bit more force than necessary. Lancelot twitches involuntarily, and follows the movements of the knight's hands, feeling the edge of cold creep up his spine.

“Arthur, in particular, had strong opinions on whether you are to live or not. Honestly, just because he managed to charm his way into Nimue’s chambers…”, he trails off at that, his face darkening, and this time Lancelot does not try to fill the silence.

As Gawain walks over to where he is sitting on the ground, he wills his body to stay still. The subtle change finally catches the knight's eye, and he looks askance at who is effectively his prisoner, shaking his head sadly.

“Sleep, Ash-man. It is better if we talk at dawn than in the twilight,” Gawain says softly and blows the candle out.

Lancelot waits for the other shoe to drop for a long time until he hears the knight's breathing even out as he falls asleep. Only then he gives in to the pull and drifts off, his dreams hazy and elusive.

The flowers uncurl in his lungs as he sleeps.

\---

He wakes up with a scratchy throat and a throbbing headache, a sharp pang of disappointment in his chest. Chastising himself for an improper start of the new day, he rolls on his side to check on the owner of the tent. However, the bedroll is empty; and a glance around confirms that Gawain is not in the tent. Lancelot tries to move upright, as much as the chain will allow when his ears catch the familiar voice just outside the tent. The monk clears his throat and rattles the chain slightly, uncertain of how to proceed. Thankfully, he does not have to wait long before Gawain appears once again at the entrance.

The difference with yesterday is striking. The knight seems infinitely more cheerful than last night, and Lancelot feels his aches fade into the background noise as Gawain greets him with a dazzling grin. It is invigorating, and he cannot help leaning forward, as if being pulled along the current of power that seems to envelop the Green Knight.

“Ah, awake at last!” the Fey teases good-humouredly. “Come, let’s rid you of these chains.”

The shackles click open, and Lancelot rubs at the wrists, feeling the itch of the blood rushing back. “Has something happened?” the monk questions, marvelling at the change in the knight’s demeanour.

“Nimue is back. The Hidden smile at us,” shares Gawain and Lancelot takes in the contentment and relief on his face, before the words catch up to him.

“Who?”

“The Fey Queen?” prompts Gawain, and the monk blanches.

He remembers the fog that drove his brothers insane, the roots that ripped them apart, and strange swirling markings running along the edge of the sword wounds. The ozone and pine scent of her magic filling his nostrils. The witch seemed relentless when it came to Paladins, but surely, Gawain would not be so cheerful if he was to be executed, not after all the effort he put into swaying Lancelot's allegiance.

His thoughts must be written clearly on his face, as Gawain sits back on his haunches, looking thoughtful.

“I know you have only seen the most intimidating parts of her,” he says. “But it is a good thing for you as well that she is back. They will be less afraid of you when she is around.”

“They would be right,” Lancelot mutters, and Gawain hums at that and clasps the hand on the other Fey’s shoulder, steadying him as they head out.

\---

The first time Gawain manages to beat him in a fight, it is solely because the noblest Green Knight of the Fey is a cheating bastard.

After a week of helping Pym with healing, under watchful eyes of one Fey warrior or the other, they finally assigned him to train the others. The field at the edge of the forest surrounding the camp has been designated as the training grounds, and all the weapons the Fey could salvage or craft have been deposited nearby. Mostly, there are bows, but there is a dozen or so of decent blades as well. Lancelot is fiercely glad to wrap his fingers around the pommel of a sword again; it's not his old one, but it will do. As he shifts fluidly between the stances to get familiar with the weapon, he hears muted gasps and whispers from the Fey circling him at a respectful distance. As a couple of girls step back and giggle, Lancelot sees the lads purse their lips and frown, trying to keep up with his movements and failing miserably. He cannot contain a wry smile, and, glancing to the side, sees Gawain smile at him encouragingly. Elated, he allows himself to entertain the idea that the knight might be appreciative of his skill. He was never shy about his talents, after all, even now, when he questions the ideals they were devoted to.

“Show off!”

He whirls around to see just who is cheeky enough to call out the bogeyman, and, sure enough, Squirrel is standing in the first row, with his arms folded, a smug smile wide.

“I reckon the Green Knight can beat you in his sleep,” the boy hollers, and some of the Fey children around him cheer, but most seem to hold their breath, watching the scene unfold.

Lancelot narrows his eyes and throws a look at Gawain. The man is grinning, but Lancelot can see the exact moment he shifts his weight slightly in preparation for an attack. The Ash-man’s lips stretch in a lazy smirk, and he bends slightly in a mocking bow to his opponent.

“Oh, you are in,” he hears Gawain whisper, and the jolt of excitement shoots through him like a lighting strike at the sight of the Fey knight raising his blade.

They are circling each other, and Lancelot cannot resist provoking the man into the first blow. He sidesteps Gawain, twirling around a couple of times, baring his back to the man, and faces him again, arching his brow mockingly. At that, the Fey finally advances, hacking in a broad movement at his side. The steel sings triumphantly as Lancelot parries with ease. However, the Green Knight is relentless - he presses on, forcing the younger man to back away, closer to the edge of the field and under the shadow of the sturdy old oaks. The children follow them like a flock of ducklings, chattering in hushed voices and oohing loudly at every well-placed blow. Once he is almost backed into a corner, the monk decides it is time to up their game. Using the trunk of a tree as a stepping stone, he leaps into the air, twisting like a cat to land behind the knight, who immediately turns around just in time to block Lancelot’s attack. The steel of their blades screeches angrily as they clash, face mere inches from one another.

“Yield,” Lancelot breathes out, elated at the feeling of Gawain folding under his onslaught.

“You first,” the knight huffs out, looking at him under the eyelashes. Lancelot suddenly feels as if something is wrong, a terrible suspicion creeping into his mind. He peers demandingly at the knight’s face, trying to guess what the trick is, when Gawain smiles. The monk’s eyes dart to his lips instinctively, and he watches helplessly as Gawain slowly licks the drop of sweat off.

It is a single moment of distraction.

And then, in a sudden movement, he is on his back, and Gawain has a tip of his blade under his chin. The Fey’s soft locks, damp from exertion, are swaying slightly by the warm breeze. His eyes are laughing, proud green, brighter even than the canopy of the leaves above his head.

The monk slowly spreads his hands and lets go of the sword, allowing it to fall to the ground.

The deafening cheer that erupts from the crowd of Fey children as they rush closer to congratulate Gawain is loud enough to startle birds from the branches.

Squirrel is absolutely delighted, climbing the shoulders of the Green Knight and shaking his tiny fist in the air. Lancelot cannot help a huff of laugh at the sight, and his chest tightens when Gawain shoots him a surprised but happy look, smiling wryly.

He drops his head to the ground and stares at the cerulean sky. His head is blissfully empty, and he does not feel it when a tiny white flower pricks its way through the skin of his back, along the angry pale lines of his scars, that he hides still.

\---

The days go by, and a few days before the summer solstice, the Fey are starting to get ready for the celebration of Litha.

Lancelot is, understandably, wary. Gawain, however, does not see the problem.

“It is dancing and drinking, and feasting, how bad can it be?”

“I am not a particularly merry figure, if you have not noticed,” the Ash-man remarks drily.

Gawain looks him up and down, black cloak, weeping eyes and all, with an incredulous face that seems to say, “no, I did not have a clue”. Lancelot huffs angrily and crosses his arms.

“You are also not there to compete for the title of the prettiest maiden. Just imagine the pressure Pym is under. I think she must have re-braided her hair at least ten times today,” he jokes, but, met with an unimpressed stare, relents with a sigh.

“Listen, you do not have to do anything. You do not even have to come,” he pauses, seemingly collecting his thoughts. Lancelot shifts his weight from one foot to another, tempted to take an offered chance to back out, but hesitates, suddenly feeling a pang of disappointment.

“But I would love it if you do,” Gawain finally continues, looking him straight in the eye.

When faced with such a statement, the thought to refuse does not even cross Lancelot’s mind. Potential disasters be damned.

“And at least I know who to bet on when it comes to jumping over the bonfires,” Gawain grins conspiratorially, and then seems to remember he is, in fact, one of the leaders of this camp. “Maybe leave some to the others. It would not do to crush their spirits.”

“No promises,” Lancelot answers primly, and Gawain rolls his eyes, dragging him out of their tent.

\---

While he has noticed the flurry of activity pick up a week before the big night, Lancelot has spent a lot of time hunting and patrolling in the wood, and so he is still not prepared for the true scale of the event. He tries to hide just how impressed he is, but judging from the sly looks Gawain keeps sending him, he is not really good at it.

It is alright, though. There are honey cakes.

Sufficiently consoled by two pastries, Lancelot licks honey off his fingers absent-mindedly when he notices Gawain staring at him.

“What?” he asks, covering his sudden shyness by bristling.

“How is that I am a heathen Fey and you are a Church boy, yet your table manners are…” Gawain gesticulates broadly at him, as though trying to encompass the baffling phenomenon of Lancelot’s upbringing. The man in question can relate, what’s with him barely understanding it himself.

“Atrocious?” finishes Lancelot nonchalantly and Gawain has the good sense to look slightly ashamed when he nods. “Not all of us can be the knights in shining armour,” he smirks and stretches his neck to investigate a whiff of a delicious smell brought by the night breeze. “What is that?”

Gawain looks obediently in the direction and squints, trying to make out the shapes in the smoke-filled air.

“Is that Marlene over there?”

“Who?”

“Marlene. The undine merchant? Why are you looking at me like that? Oh, for Airimid’s sake, you really need to start talking to people, Lance. You cannot just glare at them until they give in and give you what you need.”

“Works well enough,” he replies indignantly and then looks in the direction of the mouth-watering scent again. “I think it might be wine. Smells like it.”

“If it’s Marlene, it’s definitely wine, and you must try it,” Gawain grabs his sleeve and tugs, determined to get to the undine before the crowd in front of her stand clears the barrels out.

“What’s so special about it?”

“You will see. And I,” Gawain pauses for a moment, breaking into a grin, “will get to laugh at your face when you finally succumb to our Fey wiles,” he throws him a wink and turns to wave at Marlene, who waves enthusiastically back.

Lancelot follows him through the crowd, suspecting quietly that he might have succumbed to those notorious wiles a long time ago.

\---

The wine is exquisite. It is sweet and tart and goes to his head so fast he pretends to forget the goblet behind lest he embarrasses himself. The tables are overflowing with tankards of wine and ale and plates heaped full with fruits, and meats, and desserts, yet there is so much more to try.

Lancelot is pretty sure he has never felt so alive.

After he has been banned not only from leaping over the bonfires but also from the archers' competition for hoarding all the prizes, he pouts - while Gawain laughs so hard, he cries.

“I see you staring at the duelling pit – do not you dare,” he warns the Ash-man, whose face sours further. “There is still one thing you have not tried, you know,” the knight offers with the significant air that makes Lancelot look away from the glimmer and clinging of steel.

“What’s that?”

“Dancing.”

Lancelot opens his mouth to refuse, but then he catches a glimpse of seriousness in his companion’s face and shuts his mouth with a click of the teeth. Maybe it is a test. Must be an important Fey tradition, he reasons.

“Alright,” he agrees and is immediately rewarded with a crooked smile tugging at the corner of Gawain’s lips. It’s charming, he thinks helplessly, what have they always told you about the Fey enchanting people; maybe he spent just enough time with Man Bloods that it works on him as well.

\---

As it turns out, dancing is not so different from fighting, and it just might be as much fun.

When Gawain catches a young Tusk with elaborate braids by the elbow and asks him if he would show Lancelot how to dance, the boy looks them up and down as if trying to understand whether it is a joke. However, seeing the long-suffered expression on the Ash-man’s face, he seems to come to a conclusion that no foul sorcery is at play, Gawain’s buffoonery notwithstanding. Rolling the sleeves of his tunic up, the boy sets to work, demonstrating a basic sequence of jig steps and motioning for Lancelot to repeat.

He falters a step and huffs out, pushing his hair back and frowning in concentration at the boy’s feet when he does the sequence again.

The second time he almost gets it right, but he is not quite sure in his movements. It is embarrassing.

“You’re good,” the Tusk lad offers with a hint of caution in his voice as if he is talking to a wild wolf who feels inclined to learn how to fetch a stick. Lancelot briefly imagines snapping his teeth at him, but quickly brushes the idea off.

“See?” grins Gawain. “Now, best learning is practice,” he announces sagely and motions at someone behind Lancelot.

As the Ash-man turns around to see who it is, he is stunned to see the Fey Queen smile crookedly at him from where she stands surrounded with a dozen or so of other Fey. There is a flurry of movement and Lancelot finds himself in the middle of the crowd. When his eyes seek Gawain out in a silent plea for help, the traitor just winks at him and shrugs innocently, nodding at Pym, who is, apparently, his first partner, and mouthing something resembling an apology. He looks back at Nimue, lost and wary.

“Unless you want to only dance with Gawain tonight, keep silent and move,” the witch advises, not unkindly.

Lancelot is hit with a wild realisation that he would have been perfectly content with that, but at the first beat of the drums, he is swept in the dance. The blue silk of Fey Queen's dress is shimmering, reflecting both fire and moonlight, and he is mesmerised by her as much as he is terrified. Still, he manages to keep up, and if she sometimes slows down for his sake, they both do not mention it. At some point, he and Gawain switch partners, and he finds himself face to face with Pym, who first looks at him haughtily, narrowing her eyes, and then nods resolutely.

“You will do,” she informs him, and then they are sailing through the air again, barely touching the ground. The night is wild, and he can feel every single Fey around him so vividly and sharply, but for once it comforts him instead of overwhelming. He feels something knit itself in his chest, the electrifying warmth flooding his body, tingling just like blood rushing back into a limb after it falls asleep. Just as he is getting a taste of this whole dancing affair, Lancelot feels a wild thrum in the air and a sudden sharp scent of ozone. As the dancers slow down, he looks over to Nimue, who is standing still in the middle, her head thrown back. As she raises her arm, the phantom branches reach out to float in the air, blossoming above the awed Fey. 

Gawain is standing right next to her, and Lancelot’s heart falters when he sees the tenderness in the knight’s eyes.  All of a sudden, he feels like an intruder, spying on a private moment, and his throat jerks as he tries to swallow around a lump in it. He almost manages to drag his eyes away when Gawain looks up, staring at him across the crowd. As he holds his gaze, Lancelot can swear he feels the petals brush against the inside of his throat in silent warning, a reminder of the one last mess he needs to take care of before… Before he can move on.

He needs those damned answers tonight.

\---

Winded up from all the dancing, he crashes on a log next to Pym and considers her for a moment. She has been crowned the fairest maiden and is now trying to cover her unbearable smugness with a demure expression, weaving fingers through the flaming waves of her hair. She is failing miserably. There is a small group of Fauns, and Tusks, and – are those… most likely Owl Men, if he must guess, ogling her in awe from a distance. They probably envy him right now, even though he is here for the advice of a… not a friend, exactly, but as close as it gets for him. Pym has no expectations of him, so there is nothing to ruin, he reasons. While he appreciates her beauty and wit, it is a different person that fills his mind with racing questions tonight.

“Is it the Hidden?” he asks bluntly. She arches her brow and looks at him, unimpressed.

“Is what the Hidden?”

“Do they punish me for my crimes?”

“Well, they certainly took their time then,” she notes primly, and he glares at her until she gives in. “I do not know what you are talking about.”

“There are flowers,” he starts and hesitates, not sure how to continue. Pym opens her mouth, and he hurries to finish before she makes another jest about him being intimated by flowers. “They are growing in my lungs, and I am choking on them.”

Pym closes her mouth and seems to digest this fact.

“You're... Choking on flowers,” she repeats slowly.

“Yes,” he bristles.

“That's just so ridi...” she trails off as her eyes widen in realisation. “Oh, Freyja’s bosom! You would not happen to be in love, would you?”

Lancelot shushes her, absolutely mortified at the audacity of her suggestion. Pym settles, but presses her palms to her cheeks briefly, and fixes him with a piercing look.

“Is it Gawain?”

Lancelot, who just barely regained his composure, stares at her in silent shock.

“Are you going to say something or am I to shoulder this conversation on my own? Would not be the first time, but...”

“If you just let me put a word in,” he bites out, “I would tell you that you are wrong.”

“See, that's why I do not let you say anything. It's because you would waste the opportunity on lies. And quite bad ones at that.”

Lancelot seethes silently for a moment, and then abruptly gets up from the log and storms off.

“You should just tell him,” calls Pym to his back, but he does not bother to turn around. She shrugs and gets back to her ale. Let him suffer, for all she cares. She has far more interesting things to do tonight if the young Owl-man who keeps sending her heated looks is anything to go by. Smiling coyly, she flutters her eyelashes and waits.

\---

He is actually planning to find Gawain and talk to him. He is many things, but he is not a coward, and if there is a chance, he is going to take it.

He just does not manage to find the other man in time.

Distracted by coming up with the right words, Lancelot is weaving through the crowd looking for the knight and does not notice the drunk young Fey surround him until one of them blocks his way, forcing him to step back to avoid the collision.

“Are you enjoying yourself, Monk?” the Fey inquires, tilting his horned head in a mockery of concern.

“It is a good night,” Lancelot responds calmly, not rising to the bait. He has had his fair share of people jeering at him – on both sides.

“Good, eh? Good enough for you to let us live another day?” the man pushes on, overflowing with bitter anger.

“I am not harming anyone,” notes Lancelot, starting to feel annoyed at facing the same accusation time and time again, but pushing the feeling down.

“You spoil the night just by being here,” the Tusk spits on his boots. Lancelot forces himself not to wince, to remain impassive. Think of Gawain, he begs himself, desperate to keep a leash on that darker side of him that starts to rouse from its sleep.

“Did you think weaving white flowers in your hair will mask the stench of blood that soaks you?” sneers a snake-man. Lancelot looks up sharply, confused at what he means, when the man shoots his hand out, and he barely manages to suppress the instinct to break it. As the snake yanks something harshly of his hair, he wishes briefly that he would not have. But as he looks at what the green-tinted hand squeezes, he feels his blood run cold.

It is a small white flower.

The snake-man twirls it around with a derisive small, and then lets it fall to the ground. Lancelot surges down to catch it, but before he can, the man stomps on it, twisting the heel of his boot cruelly. - and the Ash-man watches, the cold numbing his insides, the rush of blood in his ears drowning out the shouted insults for a moment. But as his hearing comes back, he regrets it sorely.

“Have you prettied yourself for the Green Knight?” one of the Fauns taunts. How…? Could he have overheard his conversation with Pym, no, that’s… “Have you really thought he would choose a child murderer and a traitor over any of us?” he asks, and Lancelot sees red.

He gave all of him to the Fey and their cause. He is trying, damn it, trying to build an honest and decent life out of a smouldering wreck of his past, the past he could not change.

And he never. Ever. Killed. A child.

As Lancelot rises slowly from the ground, the Fey quieten one by one, watching him with quickly sobering eyes. There is something dark shadowing his face, and they are sharply reminded of the monster he used to be, the monster they still think he is.

Maybe they are right.

As his fist collides with the Faun’s face, sending the man stumbling backwards in a spray of red droplets, the beast inside him howls, rejoicing in violence he denied himself for so long. He can feel his face contort, teeth-baring in an appalling pretence of a smile.

There is a beat of silence, and then all hell breaks loose.

Someone lands a solid blow with a hoof in his ribs, and he retaliates by yanking the offending limb and twisting sharply. Hearing the pained howl, he hesitates for a moment, and the snake-man uses an opening to slash a knife at his ribs. Gasping, Lancelot lashes out on instinct, overpowering the other Fey and bringing him to the ground.

Just as he is about to sink his teeth into the scaled neck, a harsh voice slices through the ruckus.

“Stop!”

Lancelot and the young Fey freeze, as if doused by cold water. As the snake-man under him wiggles, clawing weakly at his hands, which, he realises with a start, are wrapped around the other’s neck, he slowly comes to his senses and scrambles to his feet, stumbling backwards.

It is too late, though.

“What in the name of Hidden is happening here?!"

Gawain is lit up by the fires behind him, his eyes alight with rage, the flower crown askew on his head. It is as if the god of war joined the mortals for a night, Lancelot thinks in a daze. Even now, his chest tightens, and he is speechless, hoping against all reason. His head is spinning from adrenaline and alcohol, the blood soaking the fabric of his shirt and staining his fingers where they are pressed at the shallow cut.

Pym darts from behind Gawain to crouch on the ground next to snake-man, who is wheezing raspy, still unable to get up. As she looks up to them, there is something heavy in her eyes that makes Lancelot light-headed with despair.

When Gawain locks his eyes with him, Lancelot cannot see anything but disappointment.

He should have known better. It seems this look will follow him no matter where he goes.

\---

As the days go by, he is coughing more and more. After the fight, which he vehemently refused to explain, he is on a short leash again. The Feys he brawled with are not eager to share the exact words with the Green Knight either. And so, his secret is safe – for now. It is blossoming in his lungs, making his voice even raspier than usual, jerking him awake and leaving him weak. It is a matter of time.

As Gawain beams at him after coming up with another clever trick to trap Paladins sneaking around the camp, Lancelot smiles tensely and, the moment the other man turns around, he turns his head to spit more flowers in his fist and stomp them into the ground. It seems te knight caught one Paladin alright, Lancelot cannot help thinking bitterly. The patrol is tomorrow night, and he needs to get his sleep.

As he leaves the tent, intent on finding a quiet place to wallow in his misery, he walks right into an ambush.

“So, have you told him?”

“I have nothing to tell.”

Pym hits him again, but this time he catches her fist. It is tiny, just as the rest of her, and he does not know how she manages to look so unperturbed when he looms over her menacingly.

“If you do not let me go, I'll bite you.”

He drops her hand, and she wipes it at her skirt. Which probably only makes it worse, since she has been brewing a particularly nasty tincture, but it's a matter of principle.

“Lancelot, listen to me.”

The man looks up from where he has been drilling holes in the ground with his stare, surprised at the use of his name.

“You will die if you do not tell him.”

Frowning, he shakes his head slightly.

“You know better than anyone I am not worthy of Gawain’s affection.”

“So you admit it's him?” Pym clarifies airily.

His face shifts through so many expressions, she is pretty sure she gets a whiplash just from looking. How has he managed to maintain his stoic facade before is a mystery to her. He settles on the resigned look of the man facing the scaffold, and she finally takes pity on him.

“Let’s be realistic, you do not have much to lose,” she says, and pats him on a shoulder lightly, walking past. Lancelot stands still for a moment and then shivers, tearing himself out of his dazed state. They have to patrol tomorrow night, and there must be no distractions. The damned flowers can wait.

\---

That night, he lies awake, staring at the sky for what feels like hours. Officially, he is still not allowed to wander alone, but him sneaking out of camp at night turned into a mutually beneficial game – he gets to have a couple of hours to himself, and they fix the breaches in security. As he inhales the late summer air, the breath rattles in his chest, the pain tinging every move is a welcome feeling. To his ears, the darkness around is full of life, hoots of owls and rustling of mice, and he allows his mind to drift, as the heavy feeling behind his ribs grows stronger. He is feverish with exhaustion and not for the first time he wonders whether, should he lie still, he would hear the flowers grow. Perhaps soon enough, he will know.

After Litha, he is back on the tightrope. Sometimes he feels as if he has nothing of his own here; his time as borrowed as his swords. All he truly has is this pain, and he does not want to let go of it, does not want to drag it out into the light like the rest of his sins. Father always said he was too proud, and for the first time, Lancelot feels inclined to agree. He would rather choke on the bloody petals than see pity in Gawain eyes.

It is not as the idea of dying is new to him. Deep down, it might terrify him more than before, now that there is this insistent yearning in him, crawling up his throat. There are a dozen moments when he is certain it will spill out – in flowers or words, he is not sure. At every step, Lancelot wonders if this is it, if now he will fall to his knees and confess, baring his anguished longing for all to see.

As the corner of Gawain’s lips lifts in a smile, Lancelot’s breath catches on, and he forces his face to smile back, however unconvincing. Gawain laughs and ruffles Percival’s hair when the boy hits the bull’s eye five times in a row, and Lancelot is tearing flowers from the scars on his back, covering the scent of blood with hasty lies. He watches Gawain carry a faun kid on his shoulders while telling his mother they would need more arrows by tomorrow. The contradictions of someone who is both a fierce warrior and a gentle soul make Lancelot's head spin, make him question everything he has learnt before. It seems Gawain knows everyone in the camp by name, and they come to him without fear, and Lancelot still can’t wrap his head around it. It is as if every single thing Gawain does is designed to defy everything Lancelot knows to be true, filling him with hunger and yet staying just out of his grasp.

It is torture, and Lancelot revels in it, the bittersweet satisfaction of punishment headier than Fey wine. He can see that the Green Knight is starting to suspect something, but it has been going on for so long, that Ash-man cannot bring himself to tell him. Besides, the Fey might be right: the Green Knight has enough on his plate without love confessions from a traitor. What good will they do, anyway? Because surely Gawain would have told him if he felt the same – the knight has more courage than common sense, as he has proven countless times. A man rushing into the fight as he does would not cower from telling the truth about what he feels.

As Lancelot doubles over in a coughing fit, the bitter taste in his mouth is tinged with copper. He stares at the blood on the back of his hand, glistening in the moonlight, before dropping it to the ground and wiping it on the grass.

\---

His bloodied shirt is crumpled in Gawain’s hands as he holds it awkwardly, deep worry etched on his face, making every line more pronounced in the flickering candlelight. Lancelot is sitting on the ground, his back turned to the other Fey, a small content smile on his lips, and Gawain loathes to ruin it, but he has to ask.

“Are you hurting yourself?”

Lancelot pauses where he has been mending his armour – one of the Fey warriors has managed to nick it; they are getting better at not losing to him in the first minute. The silence stretches out uncomfortably.

“Not more than I deserve,” he settles on an evasive answer and gets up to leave the tent.

The knight frowns fiercely, stepping to block his way.

“Is that what the Church taught you?”

Lancelot tenses immediately, his eyes snapping to the man in front of him, and Gawain is momentarily stunned at how fast they revert to the dead look of the Weeping Monk. The contrast feels like a strike to his chest and is all the starker for how different Lancelot acted around him in the last weeks. The young man was still withdrawn at times and mostly kept silent, but the good humour brimming in his eyes as they talked has made him think that…

“Trust me, you do not have to do this anymore,” he tries, and immediately feels as if he's blundered footwork in a fight, as ill-contained fury flares in Lancelot’s eyes.

“And what would you know of that?” he snarls and pushes past to storm off, making Gawain stumble a step back. Coming out of his daze, the knight whirls around, not willing to let the other man go yet, but the Ash-man already melted into the night shadows that sway gently in the warm breeze. He has always been extremely skilful at avoiding being seen, despite his flair for the dramatics. While usually Gawain is in awe at his talents, right now it is immensely frustrating. Locking his jaw so hard he can feel his teeth grind, Gawain looks down at the shirt still clutched in his hands. As he attempts to straighten it, his thumb slips over frayed threads - he must have ripped the black cloth, the knight realises with a sickening feeling.

\---

They have almost been done with the patrol, and Lancelot was really looking forward to collapsing somewhere to get some damned sleep. Somewhere far away from Gawain, but one more minute in this forest is sure to make him sick, which leaves a spare bedroll at the healer’s tent. Hopefully, no one is injured tonight, so it would be free. And after that, he will seek Gawain out and tell him everything, because no matter the reaction, it is still more dignified than being caught like a boy with his hand in a honey jar. The knight would probably feel horrible when he still dies, but that is what you get for saving people like him, Lancelot thinks darkly. Exhausted from the restless night, he is dragging himself back to the camp out of sheer spite.

Of course, that’s when he stumbles upon the Paladins.

See, all it takes for the most horrible mistakes is a fraction of second. A slip of a tired mind. Looking at the white petals sticking to the bloodied blade in front of him, Lancelot feels he learnt that particular lesson quite well. The bastard actually managed to puncture his lung, he thinks with vicious glee and bares his teeth, wrapping the fingers, slick with blood, around the hilt of the dagger still strapped to his thigh. He might get to kill him yet before the man finishes the swing that will put the Weeping Monk’s down for good.

He does not has time to do it, though, as the arrow shoots through the air, hitting the red-robed figure dead in the eye. As Lancelot slumps back against the tree, he thinks he sees Squirrel jump down the tree out of the corner of his eye. At least now, Gawain would not feel guilty for his death, he thinks, getting delirious with blood loss. The boy shouts for someone, as he runs to the wounded Fey’s side, and then there are strong arms yanking Lancelot up, and the smell of ozone, and Gawain, Gawain is saying something, but he cannot make out the word, and the black spots creeping into his vision, and he only manages to think he does not seem to have best of luck with love confessions before the darkness overwhelms him.

\---

\- Gawain, step back, or Hidden knows I’ll root you to the ground. I barely learnt how to heal, so stop hovering over me.

\- High time you do that.

\- Really?

\- … Sorry. I’ll go get the bandages.

\- Father? Mind lending a hand?

\- Ah, let’s see if I still remember how to do that, last time it didn’t go so well, but then again, two hundred years… Relax, chevalier, I am joking. Almost. Watch closely, girl. First, you need to get the energy flow steady, and only then… Yes, here, just like that. Don’t hurry. Keep going. You can do it.

\- What are those? Why are there flowers in his chest?

\- He hasn’t told you?

\---

There is blood trailing down his chin, and bright white petals glisten wetly in it, framed by the dark weeping marks on the sides. It looks like a macabre mask.

Gawain is pacing in front of him, still agitated from the fight, then stops so suddenly that Lancelot feels a bit sick.

“There were flowers on the blade and more even when you were bleeding out. Care to explain?”

“Hasn't Pym said anything?” he is honestly surprised, as much as he can be in his state.

“She said, and I quote, 'since Lancelot is going to live now, I am not getting in his bad graces by blabbing his secrets.'"

Lancelot nods approvingly, and Gawain smothers the desire to finish what the paladin has started. Instead, he pauses to gather his thoughts and asks softly:

“So why haven't you said anything?”

“They do not feel the same way,” he replies, letting his head hit the wooden post and looking at Gawain from under the hooded lids.

Something flickers in Gawain's eyes, and it looks so close to hurt and confusion that Lancelot’s heart skips a beat. He inhales deeper, feeling the hope swell in his chest, fighting for space with the damned flowers. The silence stretches, as Gawain seems to think of something and then straightens, steeling himself.

“Is it Nimue then?” Gawain demands, already slipping into the big brother role.

Lancelot shakes his head briefly. Of course, he would think of her first, he thinks gloomily.

“It's not her,” he rasps and swallows, feeling the metallic taste of blood flood his mouth. Just as Gawain frowns in confusion, Lancelot speaks up again.

“It's you,” he states simply, surrendering the truth, letting it out to hang in the air between them.

Gawain falls silent for a moment, looking incredulous. His eyes dart to Lancelot's tired eyes, then to his blood-stained lips, and back.

“I should have known better,” he mutters seemingly to himself and Lancelot braces himself against the cold flooding him. He expected it, but it still burns in his lungs.

“I should have known,” starts Gawain again, stepping closer and sinking to his knees in front of him. “That you would not realise I was simply trying not to make you feel trapped, propositioning you so soon after you broke away from these bastard fanatics.”

He raises one hand, caressing the man's cheek, and Lancelot turns imperceptibly, nuzzling in the warm, calloused palm.

“Besides,” adds Gawain with a wry smile. “We all saw how well you react when I ask straight.”

Lancelot cannot help a chuckle, immediately wincing at the shooting pain behind his ribs. Still, he shifts slightly to bump his forehead against Gawain’s and allows his eyes to fall closed. He should be elated, but the flowers are still there, pressing on his throat like a noose.

“Have you thought it punishment?” the knight wonders gently, brushing his thumb under the other’s eye, tracing the jagged edges of his birthmark. Lancelot cannot find it in himself to do anything but nod.

“Well, it was not one until you made it so,” Gawain's eyes find his once more. “And it does not need to be now.”

Lancelot feels his breath hitch and then Gawain is leaning in, their lips touching just barely. It feels as all the sounds fade, his face tingling from the blood rushing in, as the forget-me-nots inside him are melting into nothing, and Lancelot finds himself covering the palm on his face with his own and pressing harder. At that, Gawain chuckles and then growls, licking his lips insistently, demanding yet ready to back down at the first sign.

Not for long, Lancelot promises himself gleefully. For the first time in his life, he is happy to yield, tilting his head to deepen the kiss. It tastes of blood, and smoke, and flower petals, and what Lancelot is reasonably sure is heaven. If it is the closest he will ever know, he accepts it gladly.

\---

“Why me, though? Not every Fey suffers from it.”

“You're hardly any Fey. But alright, if you want an explanation, think of it as a test. Or maybe the Hidden wanted to tell you something,” offers Nimue, sounding far too mysterious for someone who is fascinated with feeding a fluffy grass stalk to his horse. Goliath looks pleased, at least.

“Let others decide what they feel about you,” Gawain pipes in from where he is laying on his back, basking in the sun with eyes closed.

“You’re all wrong,” announces Pym and they turn to her, curious.

“Use your words, Lancelot. Use your fucking words.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you a lot for reading!  
> Any feedback is appreciated (if I missed any tags, let me know, I will change them!). And I am always happy to chat about Cursed on [tumblr](https://kayabiter.tumblr.com/). :)  
> Oh, and you can listen to the song from the beginning here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XDo6b8DuuLs.


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